Whispers of a Wife
by sevenkingdomsqueen
Summary: The Tudors One shot inspired by Series 4, Episode 10 when Katherine of Aragon visits Henry from the grave. Warning: Has one use of the f word.


Whispers of a wife.

'A little more to the left, Your Majesty.'

The elaborately carved wooden chair creaked as Henry VIII shifted his weight.

'How long is this going to take, Holbein?' the King growled, waving one heavily bejewelled hand at the canvas where the court painter was currently creating another masterpiece.

'I would estimate another hour, Your Majesty, if it please you?'

'It does not please me Holbein. Sitting here like some accursed fool for hours on end, while you stand there telling me to move here and there!'

Holbein knew better than to answer. Instead he bowed low and began to pack away his brushes.

'What do you think you're doing, Painter?' came the King's irritated boom 'Get back to it, you knave, before I expire of boredom!'

Holbein cleared his throat and said tentatively, 'Would it please Your Majesty if I sought for you a diversion? Some music? A book from your chambers? The Queen?' He hoped desperately that one of these choices would suit the man sitting the throne of England. The King had become quite terrifying of late and if he became too bored, a black mood was sure to follow.

King Henry again waved his hand, a little more impatiently this time.

'No music. That will only make my head ache. And I need those damned newfangled spectacles for reading now. The Queen will only prattle on about some heretical sounding nonsense that doesn't concern her!' His face darkened at such an alarming rate as to make Holbein's hand shake as he reached anew for his brush. He was about to mix one of the colours needed when he King muttered, 'Tis a fine thing indeed when women become such clerks.' Holbein now knew the King to be in a very dangerous mood. For a moment he was at a loss to know what to do. Should he say something? Do anything?

'Well, what do you do there, Painter? On, on!' The King shifted back into position, his chair cracking again.

Holbein drew a relieved breath and proceeded to mix powdered ochre and turpentine to make a rich rust red for the portrait. The heady smell of the turpentine permeated the room. The mixing done, Holbein looked up from his paint board just in time to see the King's eyes drift slowly closed and his chest begin to gently rise and fall as he sank into slumber...

Henry was bored. The recent tensions with the Queen were not helping his mood. And now he had to sit like a child while Holbein painted his portrait. The man was a genius, no one could deny that. Even though he himself had commissioned this portrait, the producing of it was time consuming. What he needed now was to show to the world a vision that would endure down the ages. A good King. A powerful King. A King that people would tremble to behold and never come against. The Pope had recently given the known world carte blanche to do just that. To overthrow him and employ some puppet King that would always bend to Rome. Well, his Edward would never be _that_ sort of King, he had seen to that.

Henry was so lost in his thoughts that he almost missed the shadow that passed across the doorway to the chamber behind Holbein. He caught the tail end of it, the hint of a woman's dragging skirts. He blinked and saw it again. This time, the unmistakable shadow of a woman walked into the doorway. She seemed to pause and then resumed her prowl, growing more and more distinct each time she passed the door. Henry was transfixed, hardly daring to breath, even though his heart was pounding painfully against his chest. He glanced quickly at Holbein, but the wretched man only shot artistic looks towards him before applying his brush. He seemed not to notice that his King sat as though struck, fear blossoming as the moving figure became clearer. Finally the figure stopped in the threshold looking more alive than Henry had ever seen her in life. But no, it couldn't be. This was impossible.

'Katherine?' he gasped in frightened awe.

'Good morrow, husband.' said the former Queen of England, Katherine of Aragon in her soft voice laden with the accent of Spain.

'Katherine?' Henry repeated dumbly, taking in her black gown in the style she had brought to England.

'Yes Henry. It is I, your wife.'

'You are not my wife. Surely you must know that by now?'

Katherine gave a small smile, 'I know nothing of the kind, husband.'

Henry could only stare at her. Was this a trick? But she was here. The light from the nearby window gilded her shining black hair and veil, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight. The only option left made Henry gasp in renewed fear and his mouth was suddenly bereft of moisture.

'Why are you here?' he gulped.

'To see you and my daughter. To see what a mockery you have made of England and to remind you of what you have done to me, to Mary and most of all to yourself.'

Even though he was now perspiring from fear, Henry felt irritation rise.

'You have no right to do this Katherine! Who are you to judge me? I am the King of England and head of its church. I _am_ England.'

'I am your Queen, Henry. I have every right. You have treated the whole country ill and now I come to tell you that you will be punished for it!'

Katherine took a step forward in her anger and Henry reacted quicker than he had done in years. He forced himself to his feet, almost falling as he hastened to put his chair between them. Katherine stopped at this sight and gave a mirthless chuckle.

'Are you afraid, Henry? Of me?'

The King was silent as Holbein continued to paint, oblivious to his sovereign's sudden movements.

'You needn't be, you know. I cannot hurt you. Not even as you hurt me.'

Henry puffed out his chest in a semblance of courage, 'I did nothing that you did not deserve. My conscience is clear.'

'Husband, your soul is in grave peril as it is. Don't lie. You need to take care and speak true for God is listening.'

Henry tried to swallow, but his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. Was she telling the truth? Was God listening? Here and now?

'Come. It will do you no good to deny anything. He is here. Confess now.'

This softly spoken sentence was nearly Henry's undoing. His mind swam with a mixture of fear and guilt as he stumbled out from behind the frail safety of his chair, heading for Holbein to seek help. But the court painter was still glancing up as though his King was still sitting for his portrait mere steps away. But Henry lurched to a stop as a multitude of voices began to cry out in his head. He reached up to block out the cacophony, the heavy red velvet of his embroidered doublet stretching taut at the effort. As the voices grew louder, Katherine's Spanish one came to the fore.

'Confess now Henry. Confess!'

Henry moaned with agony as the voices threatened to split his head in two from the guilt he had thought banished to the back of his mind forever, pushed to the recess of his conscience.

'Confess! Confess! CONFESS!'

Henry's voice cracked on a scream.

'All right! So you were a fucking VIRGIN!'

Katherine smiled without humour as she heard what she had been waiting in God's ante room for all these years to hear. Now she could go to purgatory cradling Henry's confession for however long it took to say enough masses for her soul to move to her rightful place. Heaven. To keep company with the angels and know God's will.

Henry was now sobbing brokenly, his hands still covering his ears, his face beet red with his whole body shaking. Despite everything though, she could still see the strong handsome man she had loved and remained faithful to, long after he had ceased to be so to her, the man she had borne children for and the man who had often called her 'mine own sweetheart'. She made no move when Henry shakily rose and stumbled back to his throne like chair and collapsed into it, hands now over his eyes.

'Enough Henry. You should feel burdened no longer. You are free now that you have confessed.' she said gently.

'Much good may it do me.' whispered Henry hoarsely, 'You have what you came for, now leave me. Go away Katherine.'

'Not yet. There is something else we need to discuss. Our daughter Mary. She should be a long time married by now and have her own children. She was born to be a mother and a Queen.' Katherine looked at Henry through narrowed eyes, 'What a wife, mother and Queen she would make. But she can be no Queen now that you have your heir, yet you deny her the other two. Why?'

She watched as Henry slowly lowered his hands from his eyes, face wet with tears as his throat worked with his struggle to find words.

'Invasion.' he whispered finally.

Katherine moved closer, her dark skirts rustling. At once Henry flinched, but did not start from his chair as before. She stopped when she reached his side and stood looking down at Henry's elaborately embroidered deep red doublet. She began to stroke the fine velvet while Henry sat as unmoving as a statue.

'Invasion?' Katherine repeated gently, 'But why would Mary's marriage cause an invasion? She has had several betrothals and noble suitors vying to connect themselves to England.'

Henry instantly pulled away from her touch and heaved himself angrily up from his chair. He stalked awkwardly up and down a few times before turning a forbidding face Katherine's way.

'I know what goes on in my court, under my nose.' he growled furiously. 'There are still people, influential people who still believe Mary is my rightful heir, above my Edward! That her claim is enough to turn all England back to Rome. Mary commands the peoples love. Especially in the north. That business with the Pilgrimage of Grace was only a taste of might might be! It seems no one can wait for me to die!'

'But Henry, God was just trying to make you see reason and come back into the fold of the one true faith!' said Katherine, taking a step closer. 'You still don't understand, do you? What you have done is wrong. You might have admitted to me that you have used me ill in getting that whore boleyn on my side of the throne and in your bed, but it goes deeper than that. The foundation of your justification was and is a sin.'

'Mary's marriage, any marriage, would invite thoughts of invasion.' Henry continued, ignoring Katherine. 'A foreign King or Prince or Duke might be persuaded to take up arms against a so called heretic King in the name of his wife! I have decided that Mary shall not marry while I live and there's an end on it.' Henry rubbed at his eyes, dry now anger was upon him.

Katherine could see Henry's thinking. He knew he was in the wrong, had caused so much suffering through the selfishness of his will. He had given up on the saving of his soul and was refusing to admit it, though he knew it full well. Like a stubborn child who has eaten too many sweet things, the evidence smeared around his mouth then denying ever having partaken, Henry was hiding from the truth. He had not changed at all.

'I can see your mind is made up, husband.' she said coldly, 'Mary and many others are still to suffer at your hands. So be it. As I said before, you will be punished for it.' She walked briskly past Henry, not looking at him, past the still painting Holbein, heading for the threshold she had entered the land of the living from. She was a mere step away when Henry spoke wearily.

'Katherine. You are not my wife. Another Katherine holds that distinction.'

She turned slowly to see the look of tired defiance on Henry's middle aged features. He was still being stubborn as if what had just occurred mattered not at all. The same childish selfishness. Katherine smiled mockingly as she saw Henry's expression falter when she met his gaze.

'Ah Henry.' she said, 'I was always your wife in God's eyes … and still am.'

'I think I have all I need for today, Your Majesty.'

Henry again sat on his throne like chair before Holbein and his now covered easel. The court painter was busy wrapping linen around his brushes and placing his paint powders inside a small sturdy oak box. Henry did not respond to Holbein. Instead, his eyes shot to the doorway behind the painter. It was empty. Had Katherine coming to him for answers been a dream? No, a nightmare. His heart still pounded at the memory of her last words, 'I was always your wife in God's eyes … and still am.'

'Your Majesty? Are you quite well?' Holbein was inching closer, unsure of the King's mood and Henry realised what his actions must look like. He straightened up in his chair and tried to school his face into an expression that did not let on that his first wife had somehow visited him from the grave.

'Stop grovelling around me like a damned knave, Painter!' he boomed, hoping his voice sounded normal. It seemed to do the trick for Holbein immediately took a few steps backwards and bowed before gathering his packed paints, picking up the canvas and his easel and fleeing the room.

Henry slumped again and put one berringed hand to the spot on his doublet where his heart still skipped wildly. He then got gingerly to his feet and bellowed for one of his pages. When the youth came, Henry bid him to attend him in chapel.

As he stalked heavily through the palace, guards clanging their pikes before opening doors ahead of him and announcing his presence, noble courtiers and hangers on bowing and curtseying and murmuring his name, Henry thought again of the meeting with Katherine's ghost and shuddered as he recalled her warning that God was always listening and judging him for a wrongdoer. If God thought this way, was there even any point in praying for a lost cause? But no, his will was God's will, every wish and thought he had, God had placed there. His grandmother, Margaret Beaufort, had been of the same calling and this thought gave him courage as he came into the corridor that held the entrance for his private balcony reaching into the grand and gilded chapel. As he crossed the threshold into the royal box, a sudden gusty draft swept inwards and Henry thought he heard the whisper of a Spanish accent, 'and still am...'


End file.
